


Eric Foreman Doesn't Take It Up The Ass (But If He Did, It Might Happen Something Like This)

by Ignaz Wisdom (ignaz)



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-12
Updated: 2007-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-01 23:30:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignaz/pseuds/Ignaz%20Wisdom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>See title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eric Foreman Doesn't Take It Up The Ass (But If He Did, It Might Happen Something Like This)

**Author's Note:**

> Chase/Foreman (the order of which is purely alphabetical), explicit, 6600 words. Thanks to Nos and Yvi for beta help (even when I didn't listen), Moony for late-night metaphor support, and my LiveJournal friends list for their cheerleading and insight on the critical issue of how

**ERIC FOREMAN DOESN'T TAKE IT UP THE ASS  
but if he did, it might happen something like this:**

They've been together for a while. No, they've been _fucking_ for a while, which is not the same. And it's off and on, so even saying they've been fucking for a while isn't completely accurate. Better to say that sometimes, they fuck. Sometimes, when they've suffered through all the Greg House they can stand for a day; sometimes, when one or both of them gets drunk; sometimes, when one or both of them is bored or screws up at work or just can't stand another minute of sitting alone in an empty apartment or lying in an empty bed; sometimes -- they fuck.

Or rather, Foreman fucks. Chase _gets_ fucked.

Which he's more than okay with. And that's not all they do, not by a long shot. They both appreciate a nice blowjob, giving or receiving -- Foreman likes the giving _a lot_, which surprised Chase at first, a little, but who is he to complain? Foreman probably likes doing it because he can make Chase squirm and pant and moan deep in the back of his throat and then come so hard that he completely falls apart. Chase thinks Foreman probably likes being able to destroy him like that, likes the boost to his ego. Chase loves being able to do it to Foreman, too, to take Foreman's hard cock in his mouth as far as he can go without choking, to suck him, to make him shudder and plead. God, he gets off on that, he really does.

And sometimes, when they're lazy or they're watching the game on Foreman's couch or they just feel like it, they like a nice hand job, or just getting themselves off in the same room, not even having to touch each other. It's hot, sometimes, to do that. It makes Chase feel like he's a teenager again, a kid looking at dirty magazines with his buddies and all of them getting boners and rubbing themselves a little, right in front of each other, because it was normal at that age and who was going to judge them?

They've also tried some stuff that's a little "out there." Nothing really freaky or dangerous, like the woman Chase once dated who liked to be burned -- and if _Foreman_ had expressed any interest in that kind of thing, Chase probably would have run screaming in the other direction -- but things that are just ... different. Sometimes, Foreman likes to fuck Chase with things. One day they were grinding against each other in Foreman's bed like usual when Foreman reached into a drawer and pulled out something that was long and hard and dark forest green like some kind of silicone alien cock. Then Foreman looked at Chase and Chase swallowed and nodded and Foreman slicked the thing up and put it inside him, fucked him with it, watched him writhe.

And although Chase would never admit it, he gets off on Foreman pushing him around a little -- not violently, not even physically, but just being a bossy, demanding jerk in bed. When Foreman says he wants Chase to suck him off, all low and serious and insistent, Chase goes for Foreman's cock like he's starving for it and then sucks him until his jaw hurts.

What all of that adds up to is that they're not shy, they're not retiring, they're not boring and they're not afraid to try new things when the old things start to seem a little dull -- not that they ever really do, but knowing there are other options always makes the original options more palatable.

It also adds up to Chase really, really wanting to fuck Foreman's ass.

Christ, it's been long enough, they've been doing this for a while, and who _wouldn't_ want to fuck Eric Foreman? Chase likes fucking. He's a guy, he's got a dick, it's what he's programmed to do, and he hasn't been able to fuck anything but the circle of his own fingers in ... well, longer than he likes to think about.

Also, Chase really likes _being_ fucked. He loves the feeling of being controlled, of being held, of being held _down_, and when he's got one hand stroking his dick and Foreman's cock stroking him from the inside, it's so damn good he sometimes even forgets to _breathe_.

He can't help thinking, hey, Foreman might like to feel like that sometime, too.

So one day Chase is at Foreman's apartment, and he's got Foreman spread out on the bed, and he's lying between Foreman's legs, sucking him off agonizingly slowly, teasing him and bringing him to the edge before backing off again and again until Foreman is fisting the sheets and cursing Chase so often he has to start inventing whole new swear words. Then Chase slides his own middle finger into his mouth and slowly, carefully -- giving Foreman time to say "no" -- slips that finger down between Foreman's legs and up, just circling his asshole, not even pushing in yet ... and Foreman's back arches off the bed and he comes like a fucking freight train, making all sorts of incoherent animal noises, even muttering Chase's name, which he never does.

Chase thinks this might just be the best idea he's ever had.

Then Foreman catches his breath, opens his eyes, and gives Chase a murderous glare, and Chase starts to reconsider.

But it doesn't last long because a moment later, Foreman reaches down and drags Chase up onto the bed, flops him onto his back, and drops down to suck Chase's cock into his mouth. He gives Chase the sweetest blowjob in the universe for the thirty seconds it takes Chase to orgasm.

Then Foreman kicks him out of the apartment and doesn't speak to him for two days.

Still, the next time they get together outside of work it's Foreman who invites Chase over, because there's rugby on ESPN and Chase doesn't have cable. Foreman makes fun of the Australian team (_"The Kangaroos?"_) until Chase bristles and tells him to fuck off, and then Foreman's grin turns a little bit menacing and dangerous -- the kind of grin that reminds Chase that _this guy's been in_ jail_; well, okay, in juvie at least_ \-- and he says, "Blow me."

At first Chase isn't sure whether it's an insult or an invitation, but Foreman stares hard at him and then gets up off the couch and walks towards his bedroom. Chase watches him go, turns back to the TV, then turns back to look in the direction of the bedroom. "Shit," he says, and grabs the remote. Luckily, Foreman also has TiVO.

By the time he gets to the bedroom, Foreman has already taken his clothes off and hung them neatly over the back of a chair. He's sitting on the bed, upright against the pillows, a challenging look on his face, his dick already hard in his tightened fist. His stance is a warning -- _I'm watching you, so don't try anything funny_ \-- but Chase knows he's not imagining that Foreman's got his legs spread wider than usual.

He sheds his own clothes because it's weird to be fully dressed while Foreman is fully undressed, and then he climbs between Foreman's legs and starts jacking him off.

Chase likes Foreman's dick. He's never said so out loud, at least not in so many words, although he's probably said something to that effect once or twice while Foreman was fucking him. He's not a size queen but frankly, Foreman has a really nice cock. Nice and responsive, too, all things considered; Chase had wondered if he'd be less sensitive without the foreskin, but it's never been a problem. By now Chase knows the grip Foreman likes, just the right amount of tension in his hand, the right rhythm and slide, and when he strokes Foreman just right, his dick grows harder against Chase's palm and leaks from the tip. Chase's mouth starts to water in sympathetic response and a moment later he's tilting the head of Foreman's cock towards his mouth and taking him in.

He doesn't waste any time, just slides his mouth down the length of Foreman's dick, with one hand around the base, and starts sucking. Above him he hears Foreman groan, and out of the corner of his eye he sees one of Foreman's hands squeezing his own thigh while the other hand goes to the back of Chase's head, not firmly enough to be forceful, just enough to remind Chase who's in charge here.

This one's going to be fast, he can tell. Foreman's obviously been wanting this for a while. Thinking about him wanting it, wanting Chase's mouth on him, maybe for hours, maybe the entire time they were watching the TV, maybe since before Foreman even called and asked him to come over -- it makes Chase's vision go white. He desperately wants to touch himself, to reach down with his free hand and make himself come -- it wouldn't take more than a few moments, he's sure of it -- but he suddenly needs that other hand, because Foreman's still got his legs spread just far enough and Chase might not be a genius, but he knows an opportunity when he sees it.

He puts a finger in his mouth, right alongside Foreman's cock, gets it good and wet. Foreman has to know what he's doing; there's no way he could miss the finger stroking his shaft inside Chase's mouth either by touch or by sight. Then Chase withdraws the finger and, still sucking, shifts so he can reach between Foreman's thighs, behind his sac, and down.

The ring of muscle is tight but the nerves there are incredibly sensitive and the inexorably slow circle of Chase's wet finger has the desired effect. Chase uses his other hand, still holding onto Foreman's cock, to anchor him and keep him from bucking upward and accidentally trying to shove his cock down Chase's throat. Slow, careful circling, just teasing him, just stimulating him from the outside, and Chase eases up on the blow job because he remembers what happened last time, and this time he needs _more_. He presses a little, just the barest hint of pressure, and Foreman's body opens to him, letting him slip his finger inside.

The heat is incredible, of course. He knew that it would be; he's done this to himself a hundred times. But doing it to someone else is different, and doing it to Foreman -- God, he can feel the tense and flex of the inner muscles around his finger, and if he just pushes a little bit further, he can ...

He brushes Foreman's prostate and Foreman _thrashes_. There's no other word for it. He jerks on the bed and utters a soft sound that's somewhere between a grunt and a cry, and his cock stiffens even more in Chase's hand. "_Fuck_," Foreman swears, all fricatives and desperation, and when Chase presses deep inside a second time, he comes without Chase doing anything to his dick but holding it.

"God," Chase says afterward. He withdraws his finger carefully, but Foreman still hisses a little in the process and Chase mutters an apology.

When he looks up, Foreman is breathing heavily, broad chest rising and falling, his face pointed at the ceiling. He's flushed and sweating and there are spots of come on his abdomen. He's the hottest thing Chase has ever seen. Chase sits back and just stares for a while, mesmerized, taking in the view. He's got a hand around his erection, but it's not moving.

"Are you --" He stops to clear his throat. "Was that okay?"

There's silence, then Foreman's sigh, and then Foreman's head rolls into an upright position and he regards Chase with a tired expression. "You want to talk about it?"

Realizing it's a rhetorical question, Chase doesn't answer. Foreman sighs again and gestures towards him, and Chase crawls upward and sort of lies half on top of Foreman while he jerks himself off.

As he's cleaning them both up afterward, he thinks to himself that if this goes any further, he's going to have to start using actual lube.

\--

Nothing changes at work, and for the most part nothing changes when they're alone, either. Foreman still fucks him, Chase still loves it, and they still never talk about it. But every once in a while, when they're in someone's bed, Foreman will lie on his back and spread his legs with his heels planted on the bed, and Chase takes the hint and slicks his finger up and fucks Foreman with it while he's sucking Foreman's cock. Every time they do it, Foreman comes like he's been holding out for a week, even if it's only been a day or two. It gets Chase so hot that all he usually needs afterward is just a few hand strokes before he's following suit.

It's good. It's really, really good.

But Chase wants more.

They've never talked about past relationships or sexual partners or what they've done before, short of setting the occasional boundary of _I like this_ or _I don't like that_. Chase is about ninety percent sure, though, that Foreman has messed around with guys. A person just doesn't give head like that on his first try. And Foreman had obviously fucked _someone_ in the ass before Chase, because he knew what he was doing the first time they tried it, didn't need any coaching or instructions at all, but what Chase doesn't know is whether anyone has ever fucked Foreman. Whether anyone else's fingers have been where Chase's have been, whether Foreman's ever had someone's dick inside him. He sort of doubts it. Foreman is controlling, domineering, an arrogant ass. He doesn't bend over for anyone -- metaphorically, at least, and probably literally, too.

Still, Chase is curious. He's been fucked; he knows what fingers and cocks do to him, how they can leave him a shuddering, sweating, useless mess. He's seen what one of his own fingers can do to Foreman and he can't stop himself from wondering what two fingers could do, what more than two fingers could do. Foreman hasn't said or done anything to indicate that he might want to try more, but Chase is helpless against his baser hopes. They start to haunt him, those thoughts, keeping him up at night, distracting him when he's at work. He has achingly vivid fantasies of Foreman on a bed with his ankles on Chase's shoulders, of Foreman on his hands and knees with Chase holding onto his hips and driving into him, making him moan. Sometimes the daydreams are so vibrant and dirty that he finds himself blushing, misplacing files and mishandling pipettes in the lab until he has to head to the toilet to masturbate, gritting his teeth against making any noise when he comes.

When he finds himself in a stall for the second time in a week, hand down his pants, wad of tissue in his other hand to catch the splatter, he decides it's time to take the next step, even it means ruining everything, because if he lets things go on like this it's going to drive him insane.

He asks Foreman over to his place, not only so he can have things set up the way he wants them, but because it will be easier to have Foreman walk out on him than to be thrown out of Foreman's apartment. But Foreman hasn't walked out on him, at least not yet: he's apparently happy to lie flat on Chase's unmade bed and let Chase stick a finger up his ass and blow him, until Chase pulls that finger out, reaches for the bottle of Astroglide he's got hidden under a pillow, and opens it with an audible _snick_.

Foreman's head pops up -- the big one. The little one doesn't seem to be objecting yet.

"What are you doing?" Foreman asks, but it sounds more like an accusation than a question.

Chase stares at him, feeling like a small nocturnal creature about to be mowed down by a truck. He looks down at the bottle in his hand and then back at Foreman.

"It ... it'll feel better with this," he says.

Foreman gives him another wary look before appearing to relax. His shoulders sag a little and he reclines again.

Chase takes this as permission, of sorts, and squeezes a little of the slick onto his fingers -- plural, this time, because he's done the one-finger thing enough and this time they're going further, damn it. He gets his middle and index fingers nice and slippery, warms them up a little, and then he sucks Foreman's cock into his mouth again, shifts on the bed, and starts pressing the tips of both fingers against Foreman's ass.

Foreman stiffens, and not in the good way. A moment later, though, he loosens a little, all over, like he's figured out what Chase is up to and has decided to go with it. Chase feels him take a deep breath, exhale slowly ... and then bear down.

The shock nearly makes him choke on Foreman's dick. He'd expected Foreman to yell at him, hoped that Foreman would go along with it, but Foreman actually _helping_ \-- he'd never even considered that. His surprise makes him clumsy, and when he tries to slip both fingers inside, he misses his mark completely and ends up trying to penetrate the mattress.

"Sorry," he mutters, then collects himself and tries again, and this time it works: his fingers breach the ring of muscle and then he's in, he's _in_. Foreman is so _tight_ with two fingers inside him, and Chase feels suddenly short of breath as he pushes further, stretching Foreman open, just barely touching his prostate, making him groan and sweat.

"Yeah," Foreman mutters, and for a moment Chase doesn't know what he's saying _yeah_ for, what he's assenting to, but he thinks maybe, just _maybe_ \--

Not a chance.

So Chase keeps sucking and finger-fucking, working him outside and in, until Foreman grabs Chase's hair and comes hard into his mouth and Chase swallows everything down, and that's that. He pulls out and off and then Foreman holds Chase's cock and bites his neck and strokes him until he comes, too.

It's nice.

But it's still not enough.

He still wants more.

\--

"I want --"

Chase cuts himself off cold when Foreman looks up from the magazine he's reading on his couch. Chase is beginning to think that Foreman isn't interested in rugby at all, that he only lets Chase come over to watch it because he knows it'll get him laid later.

"What?" Foreman asks, his face brokering no sympathy.

Chase freezes even more, if that's possible, and then ad libs. "Pizza. Do you want pizza? My treat."

Foreman's eyes narrow but he nods. "Sure, why not."

Chase pulls out his mobile and starts dialing.

Thirty minutes later Chase still hasn't fucked Foreman, but at least they have pizza, so it's not a total wash. Anyway, Chase decides that there must be better a way to convince Foreman that this is a good idea than just saying it outright, so he waits until later when the match is over and they're back in Foreman's bedroom to spring Plan B.

Plan B involves putting his fingers in Foreman's ass again, once more under the pretense/not-pretense of sucking him off, and then when the timing is just right, trying replace those fingers with his dick. He knows it won't be easy, but the element of surprise will be on his side and if Foreman really doesn't want to, he can always say no. Or punch Chase in the face, which is also possible.

Foreman seems to be okay with the first part of Plan B. More than okay, actually: he's got one leg spread out and the other drawn up so that Chase can steal glances at the lean, strong muscles of Foreman's thighs, the hamstrings and adductors he otherwise never gets to see. Foreman is gorgeous, an athlete from head to toe. He could probably snap Chase in two. Chase doesn't know how he manages to stay in this kind of shape; he's never seen the guy work out.

Yeah, Foreman could probably kill him if he really wanted to.

Chase decides to go with Plan C instead.

He's got Foreman's cock in his mouth, sucking him to the same rhythm of his slick stroking fingers, and Foreman is cursing and grunting and even thrusting a little, forward and back. Then Chase licks Foreman's balls, feels their heavy weight on his tongue, nuzzles between Foreman's legs, and then pulls his mouth away and asks, "This is good, right?"

Foreman gives him a look that's half dazed arousal and half 'what the hell is wrong with you?' and says in a strangely authoritative way, considering where Chase's fingers are, "Yeah, it's good."

"Yeah. Okay." Chase nods jerkily. "I want to try something."

He holds his breath. Foreman's not dumb; he _has_ to know what Chase is saying, and right now he's probably thinking of all the hundreds of possible ways to tell Chase to get the fuck out of his apartment. All the ways to tell Chase that no way, no fucking _way_ does Eric Foreman take it up the ass, not from anyone, not ever, and if Chase doesn't get that by now, then maybe they should stop doing this altogether. So long, _sayonara_, see you at work on Monday and just forget that any of this ever happened. Maybe Chase is going to get punched in the face anyway.

He's about to get out of bed and go grab his clothes when Foreman sighs the sigh of the eternally put-upon, grabs Chase's forearm, and says resignedly, "One time."

Chase is roughly two seconds away from cardiac arrest.

"Right," he manages. "Got it."

His hands shake as he reaches for the drawer where Foreman keeps his condoms. The lube is already on the bed where Chase abandoned it earlier after slicking up his fingers. He forces himself to focus on the condom wrapper, on tearing it open without damaging the rubber, and tries not to notice Foreman's eyes on him. He rolls the condom down over his erection, snaps open the lube, and slicks himself up.

"Go easy," Foreman warns, an undercurrent of anxiety in his voice for the first time.

"Yeah," Chase says again, and his anxiety isn't so much an undercurrent as a _tsunami_.

He doesn't try to get inside just yet; instead he pours more of the lube into his hand, warms it up in his palm, and then goes back to Foreman, pushing his wet fingers inside, stroking, stretching. He knows that if he wants to get through this with his body and life intact, he's going to have to make damn sure not to do Foreman any damage. More than that, he has to make Foreman _want_ this, _really_ want it, as opposed to grudgingly tolerating it like he appears to be doing now. He has to make it good for Foreman at every step, no discomfort, no pain -- and Christ, he's about to stick his _dick_ up Foreman's _ass_ for the first time, how is that not going to be a little uncomfortable? It's never going to happen, it's never going to work, and Chase suddenly can't remember why the hell he wanted to do this in the first place.

Chase pushes a third finger into Foreman's body and his answering groan goes straight to Chase's cock, but it's no use. He's done. His erection is gone, his cock is soft between his legs, and how fucking unfair is it for him to get goddamn _performance anxiety_ now, of all possible times, and at thirty years old?

He stops, gingerly lets his fingers slide out, and rolls onto his back so he can stare at Foreman's ceiling and wonder why God doesn't just strike him dead on the spot. He reaches down and peels the condom off with a rubbery snapping sound, and then Foreman's face obscures his view of the ceiling. Chase closes his eyes against the sight.

"What the hell," Foreman says.

Chase keeps his eyes shut and exhales. "I can't."

Everything is quiet for a moment. Chase isn't surprised to feel Foreman's hand groping his flaccid penis; naturally Foreman wouldn't trust Chase's own judgment on this or any other matter and would need to find out for himself. The hand does feel good, though, warm and familiar.

"You're such a fuck-up," Foreman says.

Chase doesn't dispute the point.

"Hey." Foreman stops fondling Chase long enough to smack him in the face, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to make him open his eyes and glare back. "I want it."

"No, you don't."

"Why not? I liked everything else. And you like it, so what's the problem?"

"We're not the same person," Chase says. "You're...."

"What?" Now Foreman looks angry. As if to prove he's angry, he reaches down and roughly squeezes Chase's cock, which responds instantly, robbing Chase of whatever intelligent argument he was about to make. Something about he and Foreman being different kinds of people, something about Foreman not being the kind of guy who takes it up the ass, maybe? Foreman's hand is tugging at his balls now and Chase can't remember a damn thing.

"Hey," Foreman says darkly. "I am telling you to fuck me. And I don't mean fuck _with_ me, so get off your lazy ass and do it already."

Chase has never got much out of Foreman trying to boss him around at work, but there's some part of his sexual wiring that has always responded to orders and verbal abuse. If he thinks about it, he wonders if he has some innate compulsion to prove himself against people who don't think he's worth shit, but he doesn't like to think about it, so usually he avoids the subject.

It's hard to avoid now. Foreman's hand is on his dick, rough and insistent, stroking him to hardness, and Foreman is scowling at him, doling out orders. The nervousness is gone now, replaced by irritation, annoyance, courage -- and lust. He wants to fuck Foreman; Foreman wants to be fucked. Chase supposes that this is what they call a win-win situation.

Foreman rolls over onto his stomach, which somehow makes it easier for Chase to pull himself together, get a new condom from the drawer, and resume what he'd been doing before he started second-guessing himself. Maybe it's the fact that he doesn't have to look Foreman in the eye anymore; he definitely has no issues with the view now. Foreman is -- God, Foreman is _beautiful_, although he'd probably break Chase's jaw if he ever heard Chase call him that. He could probably get away with telling Foreman how hot he is, how hot Chase gets when he looks at Foreman's body, but Chase knows hot and Foreman is so much more than that. Broad shoulders tapering down to a slim waist; perfect, round ass; strong legs stretched out on the bed -- Chase even finds the bottoms of his bare feet fascinating. Foreman is a physical masterpiece, masculinity modeled in all its glory. Chase can picture him standing like _David_ on a pedestal in a museum. Michaelangelo should have been so lucky.

Foreman folds his arms on a pillow and rests his chin on top of his wrists, which makes his shoulder blades stand out sharply. His back looks like it was sculpted out of bronze but feels soft and warm to the touch, and Chase only hesitates for a moment before gliding his hand over its muscled expanse down to the firm curves of Foreman's ass.

He still can't believe he's about to do this. He takes a breath, steels himself, and reaches for the lube again.

It's easier this time, when he slides his fingers down the cleft of Foreman's ass and presses up against his hole; Foreman relaxes and lets Chase in and soon starts making the same familiar shuddery sounds he makes whenever Chase is sucking him off with a finger inside him. He shifts and even spreads his legs a little further, which Chase understands, because he's had this done to him a hundred times and it never stops feeling good.

Chase keeps working Foreman with his fingers, two and then three, sliding and stretching and grazing his prostate just often enough to keep him interested but not so much that he goes crazy or comes. Chase wants Foreman to be riding that razor's edge between _perfect_ and _too much_, the same edge he's on right now himself. Watching Foreman, listening to him, penetrating and feeling the tight heat of him -- it's even more of a turn-on than Chase had thought it would be, and he's been giving this matter a lot of thought lately. His face is hot, his breath is ragged. He might keep doing this for hours.

"Damn it," Foreman half growls, "will you just get _on_ with it already?"

Chase nods even though Foreman is face-down on the bed and can't really see him. He reaches for the new condom, tears it open, squeezes some lube into the tip, and rolls it over the head of his cock. The motions are so familiar they're practically instinctive, but his hands tremble a little anyway. He grabs the lube again -- he feels like he's gone through half the bottle already, but if they're going to do this, he wants to be practically swimming in it -- and slicks more of it onto himself over the condom.

He wipes his damp hand on Foreman's navy blue sheets, leaving a darker streaked print. "Sorry," he says automatically.

"You will be," Foreman threatens without looking to see what Chase is apologizing for. He grabs a pillow from the head of the bed, shoves it under his hips, and then waits expectantly.

Suddenly there's nothing left for Chase to do but ... well, Foreman. There's nothing in the way of Chase fucking him now but air, yet still he waits for a moment, one hand resting on the small of Foreman's back. A part of him can't believe they're about do this. A part of him feels oddly sentimental about it. He and Foreman are not together, they're sure as hell not dating, and most days they barely even like each other -- or at least Foreman barely likes Chase -- but Foreman's about to let him do this anyway. Foreman trusts him enough to let him try this, to put his body and whatever else on the line, his dignity, his power ... if Foreman is the kind of guy who believes that crap, which Chase is actually starting to doubt.

He climbs between Foreman's legs and gets comfortable, one hand on Foreman's ass and one on his own cock, then swipes a slick thumb over Foreman's asshole one last time before pressing the head of his erection against it. Foreman grunts and pushes backward, and Chase's heart skips a beat as he just barely slips inside.

Jesus fuck, it's good.

He keeps a hand around the base of his cock and the other moves to put a death grip on Foreman's hip. Christ, he's _in_, he's _inside_, and Foreman is tighter than he imagined and so fucking hot that if Chase doesn't thrust soon, it's going to kill him. But Foreman's back tenses for a moment and Chase holds still, waiting for him to relax.

He does so a moment later, and Chase pushes forward again, slowly, incrementally working his way in. He's sure an "oh my God" passes his lips at some point. They're both sweating; the perspiration gleams on Foreman's shoulders and Chase finds himself insanely tempted to lick them. He settles for resting his face against Foreman's back once he's -- oh, God -- all the way in, buried deep.

"Fuck," he exclaims softly.

Foreman snorts, but his voice sounds different when he says, "Yeah, that's kind of the idea."

Chase licks his own salty lips and swallows, then rears up a little, withdrawing slightly before pushing back in. He groans; he can't help it. He thrusts again, carefully, watching every part of Foreman that's visible to him for signs of discomfort or distress. He doesn't want to just come out and ask Foreman if everything's all right, partly out of the fear that Foreman will ask Chase to stop, and partly out of the fear that Foreman will yell at him just for asking. So he studies Foreman to make sure that even if he's not exactly wild about having Chase's dick in his ass, he's at least not in any pain.

But he's quiet, subdued -- not _passive_, exactly, but somehow detached from the proceedings. As Chase picks up speed, though, thrusting deeper, Foreman changes. The first sign is a low moan, which tells Chase what angle to try for if he wants to rub against Foreman's prostate, and when Chase does that a few more times, Foreman starts to pant a little and his low moan becomes something louder, wilder. It's amazing, it's gorgeous, it's like Chase has his own personal porno going on right in front of him, and on top of that, he is actually fucking Foreman's ass.

He's going to replay this scene in his mind later on when he's masturbating, if he doesn't spontaneously combust right now.

Without warning, Foreman goes quiet, then mutters "wait" and reaches a hand backwards, gesturing for Chase to stop. Chase's stomach drops -- did he do something wrong? Did Foreman change his mind? -- but when he pulls out and backs away, Foreman just says something about Chase squashing him and then pushes up onto his knees, with one hand braced on the mattress and the other reaching for his erection. Chase holds onto Foreman's hips and guides his cock back inside again. Foreman's answering groan makes his toes curl and a quiet part of Chase's brain starts to wonder why on earth Foreman has a dildo in his bedside drawer in the first place and whether he's done this sort of thing more times than he ever let on.

Then Foreman shoves backward and Chase thrusts forward and that's the last sensible thing he remembers. The rest is lost to the hot clasp of Foreman's body and the sweat-slick slide of skin on skin, and Chase just barely manages to hold on long enough to let Foreman get off first, jerking and swearing as he comes. When Chase's orgasm hits a moment later, he slams his eyes shut and sees stars.

\--

"Sorry," is the only thing Chase says afterward, as he's pulling out and tying off the used condom. He doesn't really know what he's apologizing for -- the mess or the whole fucking-Foreman's-ass thing in its entirety -- but he hopes one "sorry" will cover the whole range of things he has to be sorry about.

Neither of them says anything after that. Chase goes to the toilet and brings back a wet flannel for Foreman, who takes it without a word and wipes the sticky mess off his body first before frowning and dabbing ineffectually at Chase's handprint on the sheets.

Chase stands awkwardly at the end of Foreman's bed for a moment, trying to decide whether he should get back in it or grab his clothes. He settles for the middle ground of pulling on his jeans and then sitting on the edge and looking at the carpet. He's screwed things up. He doesn't know how he managed to do it, but there it is. Things are weird between them now, even weirder than normal, and _wrong_. Unbalanced. He's been in Foreman's bedroom dozens of times, had sex here dozens of times, but he feels like a stranger.

And the sex was _good_, too. He doesn't want to think about what this might have been like if the sex had been lousy.

"I should go," he says, and crosses the room to retrieve his shirt from where it fell on the floor earlier. Maybe if they both just avoid each other for a day or two, the awkwardness will blow over and things will go back to normal again, and at least Chase will be able to hang on to this night as a good memory and great jerk-off fodder.

"Hey."

Foreman is reclining on the bed, arms folded over his chest. He hasn't bothered to cover himself up with the sheet at all, which makes it difficult for Chase to keep his eyes focused on Foreman's face.

"Come here," Foreman says. His voice is neutral but his eyes are hard. Chase approaches cautiously, half expecting Foreman to lunge at him, but Foreman just sits up, still totally nude, and lets his legs hang over the side of the bed.

Chase doesn't even flinch when Foreman reaches out, hooks his fingers through the belt loops on Chase's jeans, and drags him forward.

Nor does he resist when Foreman grabs him by the back of the neck, pulls him down so they're face to face, and crushes their mouths together. Chase parts his lips and Foreman's tongue immediately slips inside, forcing his mouth open, taking his breath away.

"You liked that?" Foreman asks when he lets Chase go. His lips are shiny; Chase licks his own in automatic response.

He's not talking about the kiss.

"Yeah." Chase nods. As if that wasn't more than obvious. It had been terrifying, exhilarating, and he probably wouldn't be begging to do it again anytime soon, but still. He'd been _inside_ Foreman. He'd made Foreman come that way -- or at least he'd helped. What was he going to say, _no_?

Foreman nods, too, and then says with consternation in his eyes, "You've been holding out on me. Don't do it again." He drags Chase forward and delivers another one of those bruising, punishing kisses.

"Lakers versus Celtics," Foreman inexplicably says the next time he releases Chase's stunned mouth. "You want to watch some real sports for once? Go turn on the TV, and get me a beer while you're out there. I'm going to take a shower." With that he gets up, nudges Chase out of his way, and walks into the washroom, leaving Chase alone by the bed with wet lips and fresh new hard-on.

"Yes, _sir_," Chase mutters after Foreman is gone. He even gives a little mock salute, but when he walks into the kitchen to get them each a beer, he's grinning.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Eric Foreman Doesn't Take It Up The Ass (But If He Did It Might Happen Something Like This)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/423776) by [dodificus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dodificus/pseuds/dodificus)




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